“Oh, that arch is all right,” declared Lank; “I’ll never go back on Constantine’s Triumphal Bungalow.”
“There’s a well-known arch modelled after that, too,” said Peter. “Where is it, my children?”
But none of the three could answer that, so Peter said:
“Well, you are a brilliant class! Why, the Marble Arch in London, of course.”
“Pooh,” said Patty, “that’s no more like Constantine’s Arch than chalk’s like cheese.”
“Nevertheless it was patterned from it.”
“Then they must have carried the pattern in their heads! Why, the Marble Arch is all white and smug, and sharp edges,—and Constantine’s is all lovely and brown and gummy.”
“Gummy?”
“Yes; sort of fuzzy and crumbly; not as if it had just been washed up by a scrub-lady, like the Marble Arch.”
“Your language is not truly technical, but I’m glad you have a feeling for arches,” said Peter, laughing at Patty’s scornful face.